


Old Favourites

by freakylemurcat



Series: Two Good Mechs [7]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Cowgirl Position, M/M, Minor Injuries, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Valve Plugs (Transformers), Vanilla Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 03:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19715620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: When the going gets tough, sometimes the tough need to relax a little.(Prowl and Jazz make the most of their downtime.)





	Old Favourites

Perhaps they needed to hit a certain status quo of excitement. It is almost logical when Prowl thinks about it: a way to smooth the endless ups and downs - the terror and boredom - of the war from taking its inevitable toll on them. 

Whenever the Decepticons were lying low or the Autobots had recently thwarted their plans or just that SpecOps wasn't in the field for once, their downtime got outright raunchy. Prowl can barely recall some of his and Jazz' clinches for the sheer temperature of his blush. They both have had to visit the med bay once or twice, and now Ratchet gives Prowl knowing looks whenever he sees him flirting with Jazz. 

But at times like now - when the 'cons are in the middle of a massive offensive, the Autobot Command is in nearly constant strategy meetings and SpecOps spends more time behind enemy lines than the safety of their own - any spare moment they have together is mostly spent tucked as close to each other as various kibble and injuries would allow. 

These opportunities are few and far between. As of this moment Prowl is running on fumes - someone had half-forced a cube down his throat a few joors previously but recharge seems like a fond memory at this stage. 

The second time he stutters and nearly glitches out mid sentence on the bridge, Ratchet collars him and changes his ID on the ship's system to 'medical leave'. 

There isn't any arguing with Ratchet when he does things like that.

Not if you didn't want an actual injury for completeness' sake.

Prowl obediently staggers to his quarters, fully intending to make the most of his banishment. HIs immediate plan is to sprawl on his berth and recharge like it was going out of fashion, and there are little other thoughts in his processor but the sweet quiet that was kliks away. So tempting is the fantasy, he is hardly aware of his surroundings as he enters his quarters and heads directly towards his berthroom.

Jazz is already occupying his berth.

Prowl pauses in the doorway, feeling his tac-net trying to compensate for the sudden variable it had not been expecting- a glitch looming like a thunderhead. But then Jazz eases himself up, visor dim but with a smile like a sunbeam, and Prowl relaxes.

"Hey, mech," says Jazz, vocaliser humming a static line behind the timbre of his voice. "Sorry to gatecrash. The ol' hatchet only let me go half a joor ago." 

"Feel free." Prowl stumbles in to sit heavily on the edge of the berth. Up close Jazz looks like someone's shoved him through a scrapheap backwards; fresh weld lines and patches are evident on just about every limb, and his visor is cracked at one edge. "You look dreadful."

Jazz laughs and flops back onto the berth cushions extravagantly. "Thank you very much, Prowler, it's nice to see ya too." He gently knees Prowl in the mid-back, but his field glitters with the fond amusement that means he hadn't taken Prowl's comment to spark. "Should I be worried ya'll dump me now you've seen me less than my normal shiny self?"

Prowl leans over and kisses the less dented cheek. "Of course. You know I demand perfection at all times; how would I consort with such a scruffy mech?"

"Personally, " says Jazz, mischief added to the layer of static in his voice. "As to how, I'd recommend letting me sit on your spike. One of my hip joints ain't gonna cooperate with much else."

Closer inspection does demonstrate the joint in question, which looks like it has taken the brunt of a shrapnel bomb. A medic has removed a lot of the outer armour to cobble the internal strut and joint together again but not gotten around to replacing the cover. Prowl carefully rifles through the exposed cables, sorting the thick energon vessels with the steady hot pulse of fuel away from the thinner, more delicate wires. A few have been cut through - either by the injury or the repair - and he traces each to determine the damage. By the time he has satisfied himself that the damage remaining is not life-threatening, he also realises that the static from Jazz' vocaliser has reached a crescendo and there are sparks on his digit-tips.

Jazz tries to look sheepish.

"Ya can't touch me like that and expect me not to heat up," he says. "Do ya think we could manage a quickie?"

Prowl nods agreeably, and leans forward for another kiss. Jazz' mouth tastes of fresh energon and a certain amount of static energy from his misfiring vocaliser. The hissing never stops even with Prowl's glossa halfway into Jazz' mouth.

"The cycle I say no," he advises when they pull apart. "You should probably just put me out of my misery. So you want to be on top?"

Despite his exhaustion and general befuddlement, these few traded kisses, still tingling with static, start his charge building. Encouragement is provided by Jazz popping his own panels, so Prowl can stroke his digits down soft, supple mesh. Slickness takes a few moments to elicit, but even when tired and in pain, Jazz responds beautifully to his lover's touch. Prowl leans in close and nuzzles along some deep scratches as he gently warms them both up, until his own spike pressurises and Jazz's cooling fans are whirring unevenly.

"All right, all right," murmurs Jazz, catching Prowl's wrist in digits missing most of their paint. "I think we should move on, yeah? You give me an overload now and I ain't moving for joors."

"I could just do that, if you want?" He asks, but Jazz is pulling, pushing him down onto the berthtop. His gyroscopes spin uncomfortably for a nanoklik, but he's carefully settled so as to support his doorwings and then Jazz is perched on his pelvis, knees tucked in tight. There's not much he can complain about with those plump valve folds resting so nicely over his spike, especially when Jazz grinds his hips forward in a long slow movement, spreading slick all along the underside of his length. 

"Mech, I ain't gettin' all worked up for just your digits. Give me a servo here, this hip of mine is crampin' my style." 

One servo gives Jazz something to lean forward on and the other slithers between them to help nudge his spike tip against the underside of a brightly glowing anterior node. Jazz slithers back and Prowl's vents stutter as his spike slips into place. Even now, while neither of them are at their best, Jazz is always welcoming and supple and hot, feeling like he's been built specifically for Prowl's dimensions. Prowl is speechless as to how good it feels.

"Oh, yup, I ain't lastin' long," sighs Jazz, the static in his voice an all consuming electrical buzz for a moment as he settles down to the base. "Primus, your spike fits me so good.." He undulates his hips, the movement as smooth as a well greased camshaft. "That feel good for you?"

Prowl would choke on a laugh but he's too busy biting his own lip plates. "Keep doing that!" He gasps eventually, settling his servos on Jazz' waist to hold him. 

As Jazz rocks slowly on Prowl's spike, the plating and cables of his frame cranch and flex against Prowl's palms, every movement a symphony in efficiency and grace. The view is equally lovely; wide hips to a tight waist and then a prominent bumper, scuffed but not dented. For once Jazz seems distracted, digging sharp dentae into his bottom lip, his expression lax and pleased and his visor shimmering strange patterns from the crack at the edge.

"Prowler..." he sighs, grinding forward more extravagantly and then making a muffled nosie of pain as his hip creaks. Prowl lunges up as much as he can to support him but Jazz presses servos to his shoulders and shoves him back down. "I"'m fine, it's fine. Ain't good at settin' limits when somethin' feels good." 

"This is not comforting," grumbles Prowl, but he settles back into the pillows, wriggling a little to get his doorwings more comfortable. The slow rocking pace starts anew, gradually building up to a fluid grind that once again belays the severity of Jazz' damage. Prowl is dimly aware that he should be insisting on helping more, but he finds it very difficult to argue with such a gorgeous mech fragging themselves so happily on his spike. The best he can manage is to dip his digits back into the nests of exposed cabling, to encourage sparks to build. His efforts are duly rewarded with a sinful groan, still overlaid with the hush of static.

"Keep doin' that," murmurs Jazz, circling his hips in a way that have Prowl's gyroscopes spinning again. Every flex and shift sets his lover's calipers to twitching and clenching, so that every move was a massage of slick, soft sensation down Prowl's spike just as good as the friction of a thrust. The only reward he can think of is following Jazz' instructions to the letter, eliciting more deep moans as he plays with the wiring until his digit tips sizzled. 

Given how much more effort Jazz is putting into this Prowl had expected that his conjunx would pop off first - in fact was rather looking forward to the show Jazz would inevitably put on as he overloads - but a particularly filthy roll of hips and a tight squeeze scores along Prowl's spike from base to tip, lancing him through with charge in a way his frame can not ignore. Vents choking, Prowl overloads then and there, buried amid silken supple mesh and digits tangled in wires. 

"Ah.." Jazz rolls his hips again, visor brightening at the slick, hot sensation of transfluids pumping into his valve, and then stills. "I always knew ya liked me on top, Prowler," he says affectionately, leaning forward a little to press a palm to Prowl's flushed cheek. Prowl turns into the touch, shuttering his optics briefly. "Better get off, huh?" 

Normally Prowl would have nodded and then gone on to do his damndest to please Jazz in any other way possible, his frame so sensitive after overload that touch to his spike was unpleasant. But this cycle he is exhausted and Jazz is tired as well, it's obvious in the timbre of his voice and the slump of his shoulders; if the quickest way for Jazz to get off and for both of them to recharge is for him to ride Prowl's spike then that's what would happen. 

"Stay put," Prowl says, drawing a thumb digit down the unsteady throb of the bare energon line on Jazz' hip. "Come on, you said you like my spike. So use it."

Hesitation is writ large on Jazz' faceplates. He would be losing charge, realises Prowl, and that will only prolong things when he finally wises up and obeys, and while Prowl is willing now... 

He shoves his own hips up, jabbing his still firm spike in deep, and the static pouring from Jazz' vocaliser escalates to a siren wail. 

"Prowler!" He whines, leaning forward a little more, bracing his servos on Prowl's own bumper, greedily stroking when he realises what he's touching. With his hip joint mangled he can't manage the normal bouncing pace he would take, but he grinds down even harder and flexes his calipers like a steel trap.

Prowl muffles his own groan - to be honest he's too tired to react much to his spike being so heartily abused, the vast majority of his frame bordering on numb. If Jazz were not working so hard to reach his own overload, he would give up and recharge right here and now.

“Come on," he croons, partly to encourage Jazz along and partly to prevent his own processor from dropping into stasis prematurely. "Come on pretty thing, I want to see you overload for me." 

Sparks spill from the uncovered wires of Jazz' hip, and the static that had been their constant companion abruptly cuts off as he overloads. He does look lovely, Prowl thinks; visor bright and glitching is waves of colour like an oil slick, frame tensing in a lovely curve. Every caliper in his valve clenches and releases rhythmically, Jazz' natural tempo taking over his body, and Prowl lies still and watches happily. 

Finally, like he is onlining after a long stasis, Jazz sits up straight and resets his visor. The last remnants of pressure dissipate from Prowl's spike, and Jazz shuffles awkwardly on his perch. It takes a certain amount of teamwork for him to be able to tip off onto the berth and more shuffling and rearranging so they're comfortable. 

Prowl finds himself on his back again, with a pleasant amount of smug SpecOps commander plastered against him, helm tucked against his shoulder and injured leg draped up onto his abdomen to help support the joint. It's not too hard to twist their helms to exchange a soft kiss and Prowl feels Jazz smile against his lips.

"Ha," says Jazz. "Vocaliser's reset. Gotta mention that to Ratchet as a cure." 

"If you could avoid naming participants," says Prowl, recharge protocols pinging at an almost un-ignorable level but overcome by his concern of what Ratchet might do if he found out they had been fragging instead of recharging. "That would be be appreciated." 

Jazz just chuckles. "He gave us med leave at the exact same time, Prowler. Mech knows exactly what we're doin''."

To be fair Ratchet would probably be surprised to find out how tame they had been with each other, Prowl thinks. The last thought that crosses his motherboard before recharge claims him is that it had been exactly what he had needed regardless. 

**Author's Note:**

> Ratchet does find out, but since he set both their med leaves to exactly the same time, it's not like he can pretend he didn't know what what going to happen. 
> 
> He's just please they didn't shag each other into stasis. Again.


End file.
